Frothy the Fearibble
by JamesTheGreater
Summary: Carly and Sam go to the International meat festival. Frothy needs someone to take care of him. Who better to be forced to volunteer than Fredward, our unfortunately named hero. A Freddie/Frothy friendship fic. This summary contains exactly 255 characters.
1. The Beginning

**If anything, iCarly owns _me_.**

**After a week of exhausting essay writing, I decided some creativity was in order. Churned this out after school. Fearibble = fearsome + terrible.**

* * *

Carly and Freddie watched as the oversized burrito was drizzled with dark chocolate and lightly dusted with a coating of confectioners' sugar.

"And that is how you make a super mega burrito ice cream burrito. Thanks for watching and good night."

As they watched the credits roll, Freddie yawned. "What time is it?"

Carly looked out the window. The sun was halfway below the horizon. The sky had turned a bluish-redish-yellowish-purplish-blackish-you get the picture. A sunset.

"I dunno. But the sun's setting so it's probably late. I guess Sam was busy or something. We can have a rehearsal tomorrow."

He frowned. "Why do you deal with it? Isn't it unfair that Sam—"

The door flew open and a panting Sam burst into the room.

"Sorry, I'm late but on the way here my mom nearly killed this one guy on a moped."

Carly jumped up, her forehead wrinkled in a concerned frown. "Is he okay?"

Sam waved her question off. "Yeah, yeah, probably a couple of stitches here and there."

She flopped onto the couch.

"My mom took him back to our house to help him 'recover'," Sam said, using air quotes around "recover", "She's gonna get him in her bed in less than 5 minutes."

Freddie looked a little green. He had seen Sam's mom. She had been pretty. Had been. Now...not so much.

"Anyways," Sam continued, "I've got great news! Mama hooked herself some tickets to the International Meat Fair."

"That sounds interesting," commented Carly. "When is it?"

Sam explained excitedly. "It starts at 8 in the morning tomorrow."

"8? I'm not getting up at 8 on a Sunday to go to a meat festival," Freddie complained. He sort of understood Sam's obsession with meat, but this was a bit much. He could only guess how many sweaty, overweight morons would be there to stuff their faces with animal products. Freddie didn't think it was worth it for him to go and get trampled, shoved, drooled on, and bitten just to taste a bit of bacon from another country. And apparently, Sam didn't think he was worth it either.

"Um, I got only got two tickets so you can forget about even having a choice, Fredweenie."

"WHAT! C'mon, Sam, you didn't even try to get me to go?" Freddie hadn't wanted to go either way but part of him felt hurt that Sam didn't think to try to include him in the festivities.

"Nope. I didn't want to waste the money. I knew you were going to put down the idea anyways so I didn't even bother."

Freddie was taken aback. Literally, he took a couple steps away. "Oh, you actually paid for the tickets? That's...unprecedented."

Sam nodded solemnly. "I respect the meat more than I respect anything in the world."

"More than you respect figures of authority, personal property, and no trespassing signs? Wow, that's a lot of respect there, Sam."

Freddie received a devastating blow to his left kidney.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Fredelweiss. Getting back to matter at hand, me and Carly are going to the—"

"Carly and I."

Freddie received a devastating blow to his left kidney.

"Why'd you punch my left one again?"

"Let me finish," Sam demanded sternly, "As I was saying, _me and Carly_ are going to the fair tomorrow. But the problem is that someone needs to take care of my cat. My mom went to San Francisco for the week. Spencer is teaching a weekend art class at the Community Center. I decided that I shouldn't punch Freddie in his right kidney because he can live with just one kidney but he can't live if I punched both. I wanted him to live. Anyone care to guess what I'm going to say next?"

Both girls turned to look at Freddie. Being a boy of proficient logical skills, he connected the dots.

"No. No way. Absolutely not."

Carly whined like a little schoolgirl. "Come on, Freddie, can you please just take care of Frothy for one day?"

"Nope. I'm not doing anything for Sam."

Sam threatened like a little schoolgirl in need of a few anger management seminars. "Take care of Frothy for the day or I'll remove some of your vertebrae."

"Hah," Freddie placed his hands on his hips, nose in the air looking quite out of character, "I'd rather die than take care of that rabid, Richard Parker you call a pet."

Sam took a menacing step forward and Freddie dove behind the couch.

"NOO! I WANT TO LIIIVE!"

"That's what I thought."

"But he has rabies!"

"He got shots."

"But you leave him at home alone when you go to school!"

"No, my mom is with him. She works the night shift at the Barg-n-Mart."

Freddie was grasping at tiny, slippery, invisible straws.

"But, but, but...fine, but you have to do something for me in return."

Sam was about to refuse, but Carly nodded her head. "She'll do whatever you need her to."

Sam got her whiny face ready to put into action, until Carly narrowed her eyes. "Right, Sam?"

They had a short staring contest which Carly won. While Carly congratulated herself, Sam groaned.

"UGH! Okay. But nothing perverted. Anything sexual and you'll receive a devastating punch to your right kidney."

"Deal," whimpered Freddie like a little schoolgirl who looked suspiciously like a boy.

He came out from hiding. Sam spit into her hand and slapped his cheek (on his face) with it.

"Nice doing bidness with you, Freditorial."

* * *

Freddie wasn't getting second thoughts. He was getting fourth, fifth, and sixth thoughts. The more he thought about it, the more he grew worried. He had heard stories. Frothy was known to bite anything and everything. Sam once said that Frothy bit a barstool into pieces because it was staring at him funny. A barstool?

Who destroys a barstool for staring at him?

Sam's demented cat. That's who.

Someone attempted to kick down the door, so Freddie rushed to open it.

And there he was.

Sleeping. Curled up inside the bright orange pet carrier that Sam was carrying. Freddie figured it was orange because orange usually meant "Danger: Stay Away If You Don't Want To Get Killed".

Sam made her way into the apartment, closing the door with her foot. She set the carrier on the kitchen table. Freddie stared nervously as she opened the wire door and grabbed Frothy with both hands.

"Um, Sam, what are you doing?"

She rolled her eyes as if she thought he was stupid which she most likely did.

"I'm takin' him out of the cage, stupid."

Freddie gulped. "I'd prefer it if you kept him inside, Sam. He looks comfortable and I wouldn't want to bother—"

He was outside of the cage.

She held the sleeping cat with her left arm while reaching in with her right. Sam removed a neon blue cat bed and placed it next to the carrier. Then she carefully lay the dozing feline in the bed.

"Frothy needs his exercise to stay lean and mean. If he spends all day inside the cage, he'll get restless and angry. You wouldn't want that would you?"

Freddie slowly shook his head, fearfully glancing at Sam's animal. He heard a jingling. Sam had taken out a fake mouse with a bell attached to the tail.

"Tie this to a string and tie the string to a stick and wave it around. He loves that. When he wakes up, let him get acquainted with the territory. Don't fool yourself. It's been his territory the moment he entered. Don't have any power trips. He doesn't obey anyone but me. And that's if he had a good day. Wear socks. You want to keep all your toes right?"

She checked her phone. "Chizz! It's about that time. Later, Fredbait."

"Wait, but what does he eat?" He asked, following her.

"Meat," Sam said ominously as she shut the door.

Freddie returned to the kitchen, cautiously poking his head around the corner.

Nothing.

Frothy was still asleep.

Freddie approached the table, wondering how, despite his good sense, he had gotten himself in another mess. He sighed. Who was he kidding? Being friends with Sam (and to a lesser extent, Carly) was like a box of spoiled chocolates. You know you're going to get a nasty chocolate but you eat it any way and you end up in the hospital with doctors clustered around your bed murmuring about how a risky and invasive surgery could maybe save your life.

A soft mewing derailed his train of thought.

Frothy yawned and Freddie flinched, surprised at the rows of sharp, unforgiving teeth that lined the inside of Frothy's mouth. It seemed like there were too many for such a small animal.

That was what also surprised Freddie. Frothy was small. Very small. When he thought of Frothy, he imagined a veritable miniature tiger. But Frothy was about the size of newborn baby.

He didn't look skinny, or abused, or crazy. Actually, Frothy looked sort of cute. Apparently, Sam had taken good care of Frothy since he was born. Sure he was a little worn, his fur was gray and ruffled, tufts sticking out here and there. His tail was short and battered and he had two mischievously twitching ears, one of which had a chunk taken out of out, and he was missing a front leg, but Freddie pinned these to the rough neighborhood Sam lived in. Rough neighborhoods meant rough people. Rough people meant rough cats.

Then Frothy opened his eyes.

Evil.

Pure concentrated evil.

Freddie knew he would be seeing those eyes in his nightmares from now on.

They were glowing green around the black slitted pupils, even in the daylight, pulsating with a weird alien energy. They were eyes that stared right through him, as though he were made of glass, reaching deep into the inner recesses of his soul, finding every fault, every weakness, every bad moment he'd ever had and laying all out, making him feel as though he were both under the magnifying glass and as insignificant as the specks of dust floating in the air. They were eyes that spoke of the darkness, the screams, the blood in his veins running cold, the voices in his head, the things that go bump in the night. And they had him hypnotized, frozen to the square foot of linoleum.

Then Frothy blinked.

Freddie collapsed.

* * *

There was a slight tug on his hair.

_That's it. I'm dead. Frothy's going to kill me. He's going to scalp me with one claw and chew on my brains. Then he's going to burrow inside me and eat my organs, starting with the heart and ending with the pancreas._

Freddie started sobbing. He'd always loved his pancreas.

_Then he's going to pick his teeth with my bones. Maybe sharpen them into points to play darts with a dart board made of my skin._

A soft pressure was applied on his right eyelid which was then eased open. Frothy stared down menacingly.

"Heh, heh," Freddie laughed nervously, "How's your morning been?"

His head was nudged forcefully so that it tipped to the side. Now Freddie was staring at the refrigerator. Frothy hobbled into view (silently, Freddie noted. _Ninja cat?_) and began scratching at the fridge door.

"Ohhh," Freddie realized, "Are you hungry?"

Frothy rolled his eyes and gave a derisive _mrrow_.

"Well, you don't have to be mean about it."

Freddie heaved himself off the floor and walked to the pantry. There he found a box of his favorite cereal, Lucky Charms. He turned around to find Frothy, once again, on the kitchen table, watching his every move. He walked over and offered the box of cereal.

"Want some Lucky Charms?"

Frothy leaned forward to take a curious sniff. His one good front paw lashed out and cleanly sliced the box open, causing the cereal to spill out over the kitchen floor.

"Aw, man, look what you did!"

Frothy looked at the mess and seemed unaffected.

Freddie groaned, "Now I'm gonna have to clean all that up."

Frothy hissed and lashed his paw out again, swinging within centimeters of Freddie's stomach.

"Right. Breakfast first."

Freddie made his way to the fridge, Lucky Charms crunching with every step. He dug through the cool interior until he found a package of bacon.

"There we go."

Freddie retrieved a pan from the cabinet and placed it on the stovetop. He set the burner to high and cut open the plastic packaging.

"So how much you want?" He asked the cat.

Frothy gazed back confusedly.

"Oh right, ha ha, you're Sam's cat."

Freddie dumped the whole package into the pan. Minutes later the sound of sizzling bacon filled the room along with the delicious smell of cooked meat. Freddie could tell that Frothy was getting antsy the way he was limping back and forth. When the bacon was finally crisp and crunchy, Freddie dished it up in one of his mother's nice bowls and set it down in front of the hungry cat.

Immediately, Frothy began wolfing down the meat.

"You're welcome."

Frothy mewed a thanks, though it could've just been a "get the hell away from me and my food". Freddie accepted it as both and started to pick up the scattered and crushed cereal pieces and marshmallows lest he wished his mother a coronary when she returned from her charity work at the Y.

A few minutes later, Freddie dumped the last bits of cereal into the trash. He had eaten some of the still whole pieces so breakfast was done for him. He turned around to check on Frothy.

Freddie was faced with an empty table and empty bowl. That cat was too quiet for its own good. Though he should've expected Sam's cat to dine and dash. Of course, a cat couldn't pay, but not even a tip?

Jeez. Talk about no manners.

Freddie decided to investigate the disappearance of Frothy. He solved the 10 second mystery when he found Frothy in the living room on the couch, shredding one of his T-shirts into confetti. Probably for a cat party later on or something.

Freddie slapped his head realizing how ridiculous he was being. Cats can't have parties. They don't have thumbs so they can't write invitations.

Wait. His T-shirt!

"NO! Frothy don't—"

Frothy glared at him and his words died in his throat and were buried in his stomach.

"Never mind."

The cat returned to his T-shirt while Freddie cautiously took a seat on the far end of the couch. He turned on the TV and flipped through the channels until he arrived at his old standby: Celebrities Underwater. As he watched Robert Pattinson struggle to surface, a sudden movement in his periphery caught his attention. Frothy had abandoned the confetti and was now watching the TV with interest.

Hm. Finally something they had in common.

Frothy shook his head and left the room.

Or not.

Freddie sighed and turned off the TV just as the last few air bubbles escaped the actor's mouth. He figured this was as good time as any to give Frothy his exercise. Plus he didn't want Frothy roaming the apartment unsupervised. It was like letting a vandal loose in a spray paint and blank wall factory.

Freddie grabbed the fake mouse and proceeded to the hall closet. He dug through clothes and boxes until he uncovered what he was looking for. A fishing pole. He tied the end of the fishing line around the mouse's body. There.

He walked through his apartment, looking for any sign of the cat. When he reached his bedroom, Freddie eased his head around the door frame to see Frothy lounging on his bed. Freddie cocked his arm back and cast the mouse into the room. Surprisingly, despite having a complete lack of hand-eye coordination, the mouse landed perfectly in front of Frothy.

The pounce was almost too fast for Freddie to see. One second, Frothy was splayed out across his sheets, the next second he was in the air coming down on the toy. Freddie jerked the rod and the mouse flew towards the door. He ran to the living room hoping Frothy would follow.

Frothy did.

Freddie swung the pole back and forth sending mouse sailing left and right. Frothy ran, a whirlwind of gray, his claws scrabbling on the wood floor. Ten minutes passed and Freddie's arms were tired. Frothy, however, was still chasing the mouse. Freddie eased up on the flailing, slowing the mouse down just enough for Frothy to finally jump on the toy and sink his teeth into it. He shook his head, jingling the bell on the tail.

Freddie reeled the cat in, lifting the still moving animal off the ground. Frothy hung on with pure jaw power until he was about four feet off the ground. Then he let go and dropped down, gracefully landing on his paws. He growled softly, letting Freddie know his irritation.

Freddie dangled the mouse in the air just in front of him, wondering if Frothy would take the bait.

The cat leapt and Freddie yanked the rod up. Frothy missed. And kept on going.

"AAAGGHHH!"

Unbelievable pain shot through Freddie's arm as four hideously sharp claws met his skin and tore through it. Frothy flopped to the ground with a thud. Freddie inspected his arm. It was bleeding profusely, drops of scarlet raining onto the floor.

He rushed to the bathroom, turned on the water, and ran his arm under it. The blood cleared and he saw four long gashes on the outside of his arm stretching from his wrist to his elbow. He quickly opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of alcohol and the box of gauze pads. He doused his wound with the alcohol, wincing at the stinging sensation. Freddie then pressed a bunch of gauze pads on his arm and applied pressure. He took an elastic bandage and wrapped it around and around, using a safety pin to finish it off.

He let out a deep breath. His mother's emergency lessons paid off. Crisis averted.

Taking a few moments to steel himself, he returned to the living room with a cup of water and some paper towels to clean up his blood.

Freddie froze for the second time that day. Frothy was standing over the blood droplets, his pink tongue barely touching a small drop. Freddie watched as Frothy licked it up and swallowed.

_Oh god._

Frothy slowly turned his head. His eyes hungrily processed Freddie's form.

_He's tasted my blood._

_

* * *

_

**Now that you're done with Part 1, why not read Part 2?**

**Speaking of parts, why don't you do your part and check out some other authors. ****Tech-Man, KingxLeon21, Pigwiz, axel100, BaalRules, ****Myjumpingsocks, BoxOfTrinkets, and The Earl Of Sandwich to name a few. Furthermore, there is an outstandingly amazing author by the name of aussiemma who has written an amazingly outstanding story, Kiss with a Fist. You know what to do.**

**P.S. Please review.**


	2. The End

**I don't own iCarly.**

**This is the second part of the story. Half as long, but twice as short.**

* * *

Frothy's feral stare shoved Freddie back a few steps. He had never been more afraid in his life, not even when he had attended that clown convention in Portland. He had been seven and his mother had brought him along because she thought it would have been a good experience. It wasn't. He cried his eyes out and couldn't sleep for weeks.

And now, he might be forced to sleep. Forever.

He rechecked his enemy. If Freddie had been nervous when Frothy was moving earlier, now he was hundreds of billions of times more nervous. Frothy was standing completely still. Like-like... some sort of thing that stands completely still. Freddie didn't know. He was too scared to think properly.

Freddie waited, wondering if he should make the first move. He wondered if it was worth the risk. If he ran, he could have a chance of escaping, but Frothy would know he was afraid. And Frothy was fast. He could catch up in no time, even with only three legs. On the other hand, if Frothy sprang, Freddie wasn't sure if he had the reflexes necessary to dodge. Jeez, he couldn't even dodge a wrench, let alone a Frothy. And, obviously, he couldn't get in a fight with the cat because he wasn't a girl. His options were limited.

Freddie was too busy thinking to notice that Frothy had bunched up his hind legs, recognized by many dead tiger hunters as the last thing they ever saw. What Freddie did notice was a flash of gray and the glint of claws in the lamplight.

He quickly ducked out of the way, shielding himself behind the doorway. Frothy sailed through the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. Freddie seized his chance and made a break for it. He dashed to his room and into his bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Safe.

He heard the scraping of claws against wood. Frothy was scratching at the door. The light from the crack underneath was interrupted by a flitting shadow.

He was trapped. Freddie's emergency lessons kicked in for the second time that day.

Shelter. Check.

First aid. He flexed his arm and winced. Sort of check.

Water. He ran the faucet to make sure it worked. With everything that went bad so far, he wouldn't be surprised if it didn't. But the gods decided to smile down upon Freddie with their pearly whites for the first time that day. The faucet worked. Check.

Food. He looked around.

Goddamn. He was in a bathroom. The toothpaste was his number 1 option. His number 2 option was soap. His number 3 option was number 2.

Crap.

His stomach growled, which is what usually happens to people right after they find out they have no food. He was hungry, tired, injured, and nerdy. He was going to die, imprisoned in a bathroom by a vicious, little ball of fur.

Freddie climbed into the bathtub and had himself a little cry to rid himself of all his pent up emotions.

He fell into a fitful sleep.

When Freddie woke up, his body ached for being in such an uncomfortable position. He stretched his limbs and stood. He looked at his surroundings. Then he remembered.

Frothy. The devil cat was out for his blood. He could probably smell him through the bathroom door. His doom was sealed in a white envelope marked doom. It had a wax seal in the shape of a paw. Freddie sighed resignedly. He might as well get it over with.

But wait!

In all his haste to die, he had forgotten to write his will. Luckily he had remembered otherwise after he passed his loves ones would never know how much he had appreciated them while living in the physical world. Freddie turned and opened the medicine cabinet. He figured he could write it on toilet paper but he needed something to write with.

He rummaged through the cabinet uncovering pills, ointments, pastes, ointments, creams, ointments, chewables, ointments, syrups, and ointments. But no pens or pencils.

Freddie closed the medicine cabinet and knelt down to look through the cabinet underneath the sink. He opened both doors and gasped in disbelief.

It wasn't a pen. Or even a pencil. It was his ticket to life.

What do cats hate?

Dogs.

What do dogs hate?

Dog-catchers.

Who are dog-catchers?

People.

What do people hate?

That's right.

Vuvuzelas.

So by the transitive property of equality cats hated vuvuzelas.

Shining in all its plastic, noise-making glory next to the toilet brush was his trusty old red, white, and blue vuvuzela. Shaped like a long, extended funnel, his vuvuzela was specially made with an extra-flared opening and a patented, state-of -the-art drool collecting attachment under the mouthpiece. He had paid big bucks for it last summer so he could cheer on the USA in the World Cup. Predictably, they had been eliminated but he still kept his horn in honor of the heroic attempt at interesting the ignorant American people in a sport the rest of the world held dear.

And now, Freddie's vuvuzela was going to save his life.

He gave it a few soft, experimental blows. He giggled at the immature thoughts people would have had if they had seen him. Then he returned to his feet and placed his hand on the doorknob.

Freddie steeled himself, took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was quiet.

But not too quiet. Just quiet enough for Freddie to hear his heart pounding in his chest. He carefully made his way out of his bedroom.

Frothy was waiting.

Thinking back, Freddie was sure he had heard a sound not unlike an F-22 Raptor taking off. The cat sprung, flying through the air with unbelievable speed. Freddie couldn't believe it.

But this time he didn't duck. Freddie Benson wasn't a wimp. Freddie Benson had cajones.

He brought the vuvuzela up to his lips and blew. The sound of millions angry bees filled the air. It was deafening. Frothy halted mid-flight and dropped to the ground. He gave Freddie a pained look and hissed, running down the hallway into the living room. Freddie ran after the annoyed cat, blowing the horn with random frequency. Frothy managed to dive beneath the couch cushions but Freddie jammed the vuvuzela in the crack (once again giggling at the juvenile innuendo) and blew (by now he was outright laughing).

Frothy was not amused. Quite the opposite actually.

He screeched and swiped pitifully at the plastic horn. He jumped into the middle of the room before running in circles. Freddie kept on blowing. Finally, as if to end it all, Frothy gave a mighty leap and crashed through the closed window.

Freddie stopped blowing.

Holy chizzing chiz with a chizzing chiz on a chiz.

He threw the vuvuzela turned murder weapon to the ground and dashed to the shattered window.

All the air in his lungs disappeared.

Frothy must have had an extra life left because he was hanging precariously by his one good front paw from the American flag that luckily happened to be below the Benson's living room window. His fur was being buffeted by strong winds that came with the altitude.

Freddie was beyond scared. The Frothy might've been a rough guest and may or may not have tried to kill him but Freddie didn't want to see the cat die. He just wasn't that type of guy. He loved all animals no matter how vicious they were. (Hear that ladies?)

He took 12 or 17 deep breaths before he started panicking. He started to run in circles much like Frothy had done earlier. He kept running until he tripped over something and fell flat on his face. After checking to see if he still looked good for the ladies, Freddie found what he tripped over.

His fishing pole.

Inspiration struck him in the face. After checking to see if he still looked good for the ladies, he grabbed the pole and stuck it out the window.

"Here! Grab the end!" He shouted.

Frothy replied with a small pathetic mewling that reminded Freddie the cat only had one front paw.

"Damn. I forgot."

Freddie retracted the pole and quickly glanced around the living for any tools he could use to prevent Frothy from plummeting to his death. Tv, remote, rug, coffee table, blood, vuvuzela, couch, basket of flowers, more blood—wait!

The basket of flowers!

Never had he been happier that his mother was dating the florist from 5A. He dumped the flowers on the floor and wound the fishing line around the handle. He finished it off with a complicated knot.

Freddie, once again, dashed to the window. He cast the basket out as far as he could and began reeling it in. He heard a tearing sound. The American flag was giving away!

Curse Betsy Ross and her horrible stitching!

He reeled faster. His hands became sore. Frothy's green eyes stared imploringly at him. The basket ascended painfully slowly. More tearing was heard. Frothy's eyes were filled with little cat tears. The basket moved up a little bit more.

The flag ripped in two and Frothy fell with a yowl, twisting in the air.

He landed in the basket.

Freddie swung the basket in through the window.

They both crumpled in a heap on the ground.

Safe.

Freddie could breathe again. A faint stirring refocused his mind. It was Frothy. The cat emerged from the basket and limped shakily over. He stopped a foot away and stared unwaveringly.

He pounced. Freddie flinched expecting to feel the meeting of claws and skin. He didn't. What he did feel was the warm rasp of a small tongue over his cheek.

Frothy was licking him. Not tasting him—licking him.

* * *

Sam and Carly returned to find Freddie and Frothy sharing a bowl of chili from Chili My Bowl. Her eyes widened with surprise.

"What did you do to him, Fredsewage? He never shares with anyone. Ever."

Freddie grinned.

"I dunno. We just clicked. Right from the start. It wasn't that bad, really." He scratch Frothy between his ears. "You know him. Loveable AND vicious."

* * *

**If you don't know what vuvuzelas are, research the same way I research history essays. Google. One of the first links should be Wikipedia.**

**If you read it, please review. That way we both get something out of it. (And please feel free to report any mistakes. Thanks.)**


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